Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

  He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes narrowed, lips twitching. She could tell he was searching her face for clues she was lying. She did the same, scanning him for any sign he believed her, but his expression remained passive.

  At last, he looked away. “Amnesiacs are tough to pin down. It’s near impossible to tell what’s true and what’s not. I mean, it’s not like you can go inside someone’s brain and see what she really remembers, right?”

  He had a hideous twist at the end of his nose. How easy it was to overlook that when he was nice and charming, and how quickly it became apparent when the charm wore off. “Unless you’re planning to read me my rights, I think this conversation is over.”

  He shrugged. “I told you, I’m not accusing you. But it would help to have something more to go on.”

  “Why don’t you check my hospital records? They’ll confirm my injuries. And everything about the investigation should be in Detective Mitchell Parker’s report.”

  “Parker? Would he have info on Martins?”

  Cristina winced. “Detective Parker was the guy in the photo you saw in my apartment. He helped me after the crash, but he didn’t know anything about Martins.”

  Wilson studied her face again. His stony expression softened. “Again, I’m sorry. Well, if you remember anything else that could help us catch Martins, call me.”

  She considered telling Wilson about Santos, but their trust had already been shattered. Instead, she nodded. After the detective left, she sank into her chair, folded her arms on her desk, and buried her face. There was obviously much more that Santos hadn’t told her. And was he involved in making her believe she was Cristina Silva?

  How ridiculous did that sound? Of course, she was Cristina Silva. Wilson’s news confirmed she couldn’t believe everything Santos claimed.

  She glanced at her computer screen. Dr. Morgan’s number stared back at her. Whatever happened in the past, she had more pressing threats in the present, including protecting her patients’ safety and her own reputation. She pursed her lips and dialed Morgan’s number.

  “Dr. Silva,” he said. “It’s good to hear your voice, though I’m guessing you aren’t calling to see if I’m free tonight.”

  Despite her exhaustion, she smiled. “In a way, I am. Did they send Jerry Peterman’s body to you for autopsy?”

  “He was your patient? You’ve had an unlucky run, haven’t you?”

  “Thank you for reminding me.”

  “Please forgive my dumbass remark. What I meant was, how are you holding up?”

  She sighed. “Barely. Please tell me you found something useful when looking at Jerry Peterman.”

  “Well, he has an odd-looking scar at the base of his neck, but that’s years old, so I doubt it’s relevant. Blood and urine tox screens were negative except for trace amounts of cannabis and a blood alcohol concentration through the roof.”

  “He was drunk?” Cristina frowned. Jerry never admitted to a drinking problem, but apparently there was a lot he had withheld. At least he tested negative for stimulants. That would derail his sister’s claims.

  “What I saw at Park Street Station didn’t look like an angry drunk,” she said. “Something else happened to him. Are you doing tissue studies?”

  “I’m afraid not. His sister is demanding he be transferred to a private pathologist. There’s a court order barring me from touching his body until it’s settled.”

  Cristina gasped. “How can she do that? What about the criminal investigation?”

  “Boston PD is satisfied with Peterman’s psychiatric history and his BAC as the cause of his behavior, so they’re not fighting her decision. I didn’t think a medicolegal autopsy could be refused, so I’m still pushing to overturn the decision, but Ms. Peterman is very persuasive.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” Cristina chewed her cuticle. Without a full autopsy, she had nothing to exonerate her from Stacey Peterman’s claims of malpractice. But maybe there was another way. “Do you still have the blood and urine?”

  “Samples are in the cooler.”

  “This may sound odd, but could you check catecholamine levels?”

  “You think he had a pheo?”

  Morgan meant a pheochromocytoma—a rare adrenal gland tumor that released high levels of fight-or-flight neurotransmitters like norepinephrine. A tumor like that could manifest as erratic or violent behavior.

  “Maybe, or something like it.”

  “I’m intrigued. Sure, I’ll run it. The court only said I couldn’t touch his body.”

  “Great. Could you also do a cannabis quant?”

  Morgan hesitated. “I don’t usually get specific requests like this from psychiatrists. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Just that I need to know if he was taking the same dose of Recognate I prescribed.

  “No, I want to cover all bases,” Cristina said. “I need to identify any potential risk to my other patients.”

  “All right, that’s simple enough. It’ll take a few days.”

  “Thank you so much, Dr. Morgan.”

  “Please, call me Luke.”

  She smiled. “Thanks, Luke.”

  As Cristina hung up, she decided it was time to confront Stacey Peterman. If the woman was telling the truth, she was probably in pain. Answering her questions would address her concerns about how Cristina managed Jerry’s symptoms and might provide Cristina with some answers as well. She buzzed Devi. “Can you get next of kin information from Jerry Peterman’s insurer? I want a number for Stacey.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Cristina’s cell phone vibrated: Andrea calling.

  “This is a bad time,” Cristina said. “We’ll talk when I get home.”

  “I don’t think this can wait.”

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “No. I just left a meeting with my supervisor.” Andrea paused, as if searching for the right words. “You’re being sued.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Please tell me you’re joking.” Cristina massaged her temples. Now she knew what drowning felt like. Every time she came up for air, another wave crashed over her. “Who’s suing me? No, let me guess. Stacey Peterman.”

  “Actually,” Andrea said, “it’s a combined lawsuit by the families of Jerry’s victims. They claim you allowed a psychotic killer to run free.”

  The blood drained from Cristina’s face. “That’s ridiculous. Jerry never seemed angry before yesterday, let alone psychotic or homicidal.”

  “Honey, I believe you, but I can see why a lawyer would jump on the case, with Jerry’s history of hospitalization and his sister’s accusations. And it was also reported that you were at the crime scene.”

  “But I didn’t know—”

  “It looks bad. Still, they need to prove you knew there was a foreseeable threat and didn’t warn the victims.”

  “Then they don’t have a case. I feel horrible for those poor people, but how could I warn random victims?”

  After a pause, Andrea said, “Are you sure they were random?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She hesitated again. “Did Jerry refer to his last victim by a name?”

  The walls started to close in. “Yes.”

  “He called him Quinn, right?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, knowing her failure to mention this to Andrea would piss her off.

  “Damn it, Cristina! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was going to. There was so much going on and . . . Wait. Was the man Jerry executed named Quinn?”

  “No. But a witness told a reporter they heard Jerry shouting ‘Quinn must die!’ So even if it was a case of mistaken identity, he was clearly hunting for a specific target.”

  “Jerry never mentioned anyone named Quinn to me.”

  “B
ut that’s the name you were shouting in your sleep the other night. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I don’t know anyone named Quinn. I don’t know what happened to Jerry.” She swallowed back tears. “Andrea, I’m falling apart.”

  “Calm down.” Andrea’s tone softened. “Look, with all the trash Stacey Peterman is throwing the media, we need hard proof of your innocence.”

  “If she was so close to Jerry, where’s she been for the past year?”

  “That’s a good question, but we need to concentrate on you. I’m going to give you the name of a lawyer at another firm, but don’t mention my name so there’s no conflict of interest. Don’t talk to reporters until you talk to him, and for heaven’s sake, don’t say anything to anyone about Quinn. The last thing we need is a media circus.”

  Cristina may not have a family, but Andrea was the next best thing. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Probably end up seeing a shrink, and we both know what a mistake that is.” Andrea snickered. “When you get home, I’ll fix you a mojito and everything will be fine.”

  As Cristina considered what lay ahead—an angry sister, a missing daughter, mysteries about her past, the looming threat of Zero Dark, and a lawsuit that could threaten her practice and privacy—for once, the idea of drinking away all memory sounded appealing. “I’ll stop by at six.”

  “Any later, though, and the rum may be gone by the time you arrive.”

  Whatever comfort Cristina had found in talking to Andrea ebbed the moment she hung up. Even if she could prove Jerry’s rampage was unpredictable and unavoidable, the media attention would take weeks to die down. And Stacey Peterman was stoking the fire.

  Cristina keyed the intercom.

  “Devi,” Cristina said, “did you find anything on Jerry’s sister?”

  “One of the local news anchors said he’d give me her number if you agreed to an exclusive interview,” Devi replied.

  “I’m not doing interviews.”

  “Those were his terms.”

  “Forget it.” Cristina tapped her fingernail on the keyboard. “The insurance company doesn’t have it?”

  “No next of kin listed.”

  “Can you search the internet then? For the names of Jerry’s victims too?”

  “I can try public records,” Devi said. “Why don’t you ask Detective Wilson for help?”

  “He’s busy enough, and I trust you more.” Cristina’s watch beeped. Time for her pills. She stopped with the drawer halfway open. Andrea’s questions about Jerry’s rage were valid. Cristina was missing something. “Devi, can you see if we have a chart on someone named Quinn?”

  “Is that a first or last name?”

  “Check both.” Cristina’s watch beeped again. She turned off the intercom and retrieved the pill bottle. Following her routine, she poured three green capsules into her palm, continuing the higher dosage she’d started two days earlier. She stopped short of placing them in her mouth. Two patients were dead. ReMind’s CEO insisted Recognate was safe.

  Cristina stared at the capsules. A new memory flitted along the back wall of her mind. She snatched at it, willing it to solidify. There it was. She nearly dropped the pills.

  She was driving her parents’ Lexus. High beams illuminated the wet road ahead. Her mother was in the passenger seat next to her. The smell of Angel perfume mingled with the scent of fresh leather. From the backseat, her father was telling a joke.

  “So, the psychotherapist goes outside to see his new sign. He’s shocked to discover the painter hadn’t been able to fit it all on one line, so he broke it up into three lines.” Jorge Silva paused for effect. “It read, Psycho. The. Rapist.”

  Cristina’s family all laughed.

  Cristina adjusted her rearview mirror to dim the glare of the headlights from the SUV behind them. “Do you know why psychotherapy is faster for a man than for a woman?”

  Her parents said they didn’t.

  She turned onto a side road. The car skidded.

  Her heart raced, but she forced herself to stay calm. She turned into the skid.

  The car obeyed. She exhaled in relief.

  “Because when it’s time to go back to childhood, the man is already there.”

  Her parents laughed even louder.

  Something rammed them from behind. Cristina’s head whipped forward and back.

  She checked the rear view. High beams from the SUV nearly blinded her.

  “What happened?” her mother asked, clinging to the side console.

  “They must’ve skidded on the ice,” Cristina said, looking for a spot to pull over.

  The SUV swerved and roared past. Its passenger side clipped the Lexus.

  The car juddered. The steering wheel wrenched out of Cristina’s grip.

  Her mother screamed. Father shouted.

  Cristina fought to regain control. The wheel wouldn’t respond.

  She hit the brakes.

  Nothing happened.

  They were careening toward the guard rail.

  “No!” she shouted.

  The Lexus crunched through the guard rail. The windshield shattered.

  Her mother was crying. Cristina saw a jagged piece of glass sticking out of her mother’s chest. The smell of blood assailed her.

  “Mom . . .” she said. Then something struck her head, and the world turned upside down.

  Cristina stared straight ahead, digesting the memory. How could the smell of blood be so pungent, and the sound of her mother screaming hurt her eardrums, unless she’d been in the car with them?

  She opened her fist. The pills seemed to pulsate, beckoning.

  Each time Santos’s path crossed hers, he had hurt her family. And he’d hidden his involvement with them before the car crash. Maybe Cristina knew more about Sebastian dos Santos than she realized. The answers were deep in her mind. She couldn’t give up now.

  Closing her eyes, she popped the pills.

  In a hostel near Fenway Park, Sebastian dos Santos sat on the common-

  area couch, eyes glued to the television. His heart raced as he watched Stacey Peterman’s onscreen rant about negligent doctors. Sweat rolled down his cheek as they flashed Cristina’s photo. At best, this would distract her. At worst, it would ruin her.

  “What a messed up country,” said a traveler lounging on a recliner. “Man goes to doctor because he’s crazy, and she gives him drugs that make him crazier. If you ask me, doctors should take these drugs before using us as guinea pigs.”

  “Then it’s good no one asked you.” Santos stood and buttoned his overcoat. He had no time to deal with ignorance.

  He needed to reveal the truth before it was too late.

  Chapter Twenty

  As she lingered on the corner of Arlington Street outside the Maharajah Hotel, Cristina’s head ached like she’d gone several rounds with a heavyweight champ. She shielded her eyes from the winter sun. Sharing drinks last night with Andrea had seemed like a great idea, but now Cristina was paying for it. The alcohol hadn’t chased away the demons, only blurred them together.

  Cristina checked the email she’d received early that morning from an anonymous webmail address. It said Stacey Peterman had a change of heart and wanted to meet her to settle their dispute face-to-face. Cristina wondered what the lawyer Andrea had arranged would say about it, but she didn’t care. She was certain the woman, as angry as she was, would be more amicable once Cristina explained what Jerry had been through. And, if they could put this matter to rest quickly, without drawn-out legal proceedings, all the better.

  For the third time since receiving the email, Cristina studied the screen capture of Stacey Peterman from her FOX News interview. Devi had been right. The woman’s hawkish nose and feral blond mane made her look like a harpy. Hopefully, she’d calmed down since.


  Sticking her phone in her purse, Cristina climbed the lobby steps to the hotel where she would be meeting with Stacey Peterman. The opulent gold trim and ornate wood inlays caught Cristina’s eye as she approached the front desk. Paintings and antiques lined the walls. Lilies and tea lights floated in a huge copper bowl. Even the air smelled expensive, a mixture of orchids and Indian spices. How much would a night cost? Probably more than Cristina could’ve afforded, even before the cost of the potential lawsuit.

  The clerk—tall, dark-haired and decked out in an off-white Mandarin-

  collared suit—finished checking in a guest and nodded to Cristina. “Can I help you?”

  “Could you please call up to Stacey Peterman’s room?” Cristina smiled.

  “Certainly.” He began typing. “Your name?”

  “Dr. Cristina Silva.”

  He stopped typing. “The one on the news?”

  “No.” She struggled to maintain her composure. “The one standing right here. Could you please call Ms. Peterman?”

  After an uncomfortable moment, in which the clerk studied Cristina’s face in great detail, he picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Dr. Cristina Silva is here to see you, ma’am.” He paused to listen. “I don’t know, but she’s here.” He listened again. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll tell her.” He hung up. “She’s not accepting visitors.”

  “She asked me to come here. Could you call again, and I’ll talk to her?”

  “I’m afraid that’s against hotel policy. If you like, I can take your number and give it to Ms. Peterman.”

  “Fine.” Cristina emptied her purse until she found her business cards. She handed him one. “Please make sure she knows it’s urgent.”

  “Yes, I heard you the first time.” The clerk stuck the card in an envelope and scribbled a room number on the front.

  Cristina tried to see, but he placed his hand over it.

  “I’ll make sure she gets it. Have a pleasant day.”

  Cristina had the half-baked notion of distracting him, stealing the envelope, and running upstairs. Instead, she stuffed everything back into her purse and stormed out of the building.